


Journey to the Past

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: American McGee's Alice, Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Drama, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hallucinations, Inspired by a Movie, Mental Health Issues, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Psychological Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8944747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: Ten years since the accident that killed his nanny and best friend, Victor Van Dort and his wife-to-be make their first pilgrimage to the scene of the tragedy. What awaits amounts to considerably more than a stack of crumbling charcoal.
Meanwhile, Lizzie is released from Houndsditch Home a grown woman, with a name that doesn't quite sit right, an imaginary friend (or two), and a burning curiosity. 
Two travelers meet in their journey to the past- but perhaps their stories are more intertwined than either could have imagined?
Valice AU, based on the animated film 'Anastasia'
(MCD tag added for safety- all deaths are canon, no nasty surprises!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, first thing posted in ages huh? And it's for a pairing that like, two people ship. Bet y'all just love me xD
> 
> I was hoping to have all of this written before I posted any so I didn't leave anyone waiting forever, but I feel like I've been pretty inactive and a teaser wouldn't hurt. And to be fair I'm only a chapter and a half from being finished, so who knows, could be done sooner than you think!
> 
> Valice is just like a really cute ship with not enough fic because it's obscure af so this is my clumsy lil' attempt to remedy that sitch. This movie is an old favourite of mine and then the Valice-y plot bunnies appeared and I couldn't shake it. Historical accuracy is NOT my forte, so kindly ignore any anachronisms/un-Victorian behaviour, sit back and enjoy the ride!
> 
> I also did an illustration for this chapter (which is slightly bad quality rn, will upload better quality version sometime soon)- may illustrate the others, may not. If anyone has a particular desire to see more illustrations, or more of this story in general, let us know in the comments! Positive feedback is my jam ^_^

_I’ll never forget that night. Ten long years ago everything changed. I was but a child, and yet still the memory remains clear as day._

 

_Mother and Father were hosting a party. It was an extravagant affair, in fact, I do believe each guest upon entering quite forgot we were a family of fish merchants. Until they laid eyes on the hors d'oeuvres, that is. Not a fish-free dish to be found. I must admit, I’ve grown rather tired of the blasted stuff._

 

_But despite the extravagance and posturing, and my parents’ ever tiresome attempts to grease their way up the social ladder by pestering our more high-profile guests, I remember it being a fun night. And I’d say I have two people to thank for that._

 

_The first was Emily. Oh, my dear Emily. She was my nanny at the time- mother found it quite tiresome catering to the whims of such a needy child as myself. Her words, not mine. So she hired Emily. She was a sweet young lady from a well-off family, I can’t imagine why she took to childcare for the middle-class and neglectful, she hardly needed the income. But whatever her reasons, I was most grateful for her company. The two of us played and danced. She used to sit me at her side when she played piano, and eventually began to teach me a few chords. I still remember the pride on her face when I played my first full tune._

 

_And then there was Alice. A most unusual girl, as I recall. I met her but a few times, when my parents had her family round for dinner. Her father used to tutor me in English literature. She had a strange manner about her, head always in the clouds. She seldom spoke, but when she did she would come out with the most preposterous phrases and stories, she even wrote little songs from time to time. But I enjoyed listening to them, when she felt like sharing these wonderfully imaginative tales of her own secret world. Sometimes in exchange I would give her a drawing- she always did love my butterfly sketches._

 

_That night Alice was as bored with the middle-class pageantry as I was, and Emily made it her own personal mission to keep us entertained. While the ‘grown-ups’ shared their small talk in the great hall, we explored the servants’ quarters, played hide-and-seek in the darkest recesses of the vast mausoleum I called home once upon a time. We had a wonderful night together._

 

_But it was not to last._

 

_The fire started in the kitchens. At least, that’s what the police told us after the event. They suspected a careless cook and an unattended stove as the culprit. Whatever the cause and the origin, the blaze spread faster than any of us could have predicted. My parents would later be told that the expensive wood varnish they’d all but coated the interior in prior to the event was a frequently witnessed firetrap._

 

_I twisted my ankle on a step, and dear Emily had to carry me. She held me to her chest as she ran, coughing as the smoke began to rise, little Alice clinging to her skirts._

_The house was crumbling around us, flaming debris raining down. I remember sobbing around my coughs, I remember Alice’s cries as the sparks nipped her skin._

 

_We were almost to safety when the rafter fell._

 

_The smallest gap remained, the one unobstructed view into the safety of the outside. It was easy to see that Emily could not possibly fit._

 

_She put me down, told me it was time to run now. Kissed my forehead and told me to go and find my parents, quickly, and don’t dilly dally. I cried and told her no, I clung to her like a drowning man clings to a raft._

 

_That was when Alice emerged from behind her, eyes blazing. I know surely it must have been the fire reflected in their depths, but to this day I can’t shake the feeling that I was simply seeing her own resolve solidified._

 

_She took two steps forward, and she pushed me._

 

_I was a clumsy child, and had trouble staying balanced at the best of times. So of course, I tripped. I fell backwards, head over heels, through the narrow opening and to safety._

 

_I immediately struggled to my feet and cried out, but it was too late._

 

_I caught one last glimpse of Alice’s hand reaching for the opening, and dear Emily’s weeping face, before the last support collapsed, sealing them inside._

 

_It was Mayhew, our family’s loyal chauffeur, who held me back as I kicked and screamed, lashing out to reach the door. I was small, and weak, with a twisted ankle and all the strength of a new-born foal, but I was determined. They couldn’t die. Not little Alice. Not my Emily. No one could hold me back._

 

_But hold me he did. And soon our house, and every poor soul still trapped inside, was no more._

 

_It took all night for the fires to die. What remained amounted to little more than a crumbling cage of blackened kindling. Bodies were exhumed, and slowly identified. The bodies of Alice and her family were sent off for burial, along with a handful of other guests and servants who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And eventually, so was Emily. Hers was an open casket funeral. In the end, it was the smoke that had killed her. A joint service was held for Alice’s family. I’m ashamed to say, I could not bring myself to attend, not even to bring flowers._

 

_I never did say my goodbyes._

 

* * *

 

“Victor, are you quite alright?”

 

“Yes, yes,” Victor assured her, forcing his hands down and away from his tie. His mother would have some sharp words for him if she could see him throttling it. He forced a smile.

 

His fiancée did not appear convinced. In fact, the lovely Miss Everglot was wearing an expression as close to derision as her strict upper-class upbringing would allow. “You don’t have to lie to me, Victor,” she said kindly, hands folded in her lap. “I understand this must be quite difficult. It’s not too late to turn back, if you’d rather not…”

 

“No, of course not,” he said quickly, wincing. He simply _must_ get into the habit of phrasing his objections a little less rudely. “Do forgive me, Victoria. I- I do believe this is something I must do.”

 

She smiled, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. An act of intimacy that would surely not be allowed to pass had their parents been present on this trip. Fortunately they had been allowed to undertake this little expedition on their own- granted they roomed in separate quarters, of course. Mayhew was under strict orders to ensure that was the case. “I understand. It’s rather brave, what you’re doing. I’m not sure I would have the stomach under such circumstances.”

 

He frowned, confused. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s nothing really, it’s just a house after all- and not even that, really, not since the…” he gulped. “Not since the incident.”

 

He could see the pity in her eyes, and couldn’t help but feel it was misplaced. He had survived, after all. He had escaped that blazing hell almost totally unscathed, lived ten long and relatively healthy years since. He was engaged to be married, for goodness’ sake! To a kind, beautiful woman from a respected family, by all accounts the best wife he could ask for, and certainly better than he’d ever dreamed.

 

But then he thought back to that night. Remembered the smoke catching in his throat, head pounding, Emily’s sobs and Alice’s choking coughs. Remembered Emily’s beautiful face stained with tears, Alice’s twisted in determination. The last memory he would have of either of them.

 

In those moments, he was grateful for her sympathy.

 

She patted his hand and leaned back. “Well, whatever your reasons, I’m glad you asked me to accompany you. I shouldn’t like to think of you making this trip alone.”

 

“Yes,” he said softly, clasping his hands together shyly. “Yes, well… thank you, too. For accompanying me. It is a much more pleasant journey with you by my side.”

 

They shared a shy smile, and Victor felt a bit of the weight lift from his shoulders. Perhaps this arrangement with Victoria wasn’t what he’d always imagined. He had always hoped he might meet his future wife through their common interests, grow their relationship from the seeds of friendship. An arranged marriage by his parents for the sake of climbing the social ladder certainly would not have been his first choice. But in moments like these, sharing a moment of quiet understanding with the soon-to-be Mrs. Van Dort, he could not bring himself to regret the choices that had led them there.

 

It was then that the carriage rattled to a halt, the smoke-roughened voice of their chauffeur signalling the horses’ stop. Just like that, the moment of calm was over.

 

Victor’s hands strayed immediately back to his tie, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped. “Oh. We’re here. I hadn’t, well, I hadn’t expected our j-journey to be over quite so soon…”

 

Victoria watched him with concern. “Are you sure about this, Victor?”

 

It took a long minute of quiet contemplation and self-discipline, but finally Victor nodded his assent. “Yes. Quite certain,” he put on a brave face. It would be quite impolite to drive his wife-to-be to worry with such dramatics. That’s what Mother would say.

 

She nodded, no doubt unconvinced but politely refraining from saying so. She even broke tradition by hopping out of the carriage first instead of waiting for Victor to hand her out. No doubt out of some desire to assess their surroundings before he threw himself into what could be a traumatic situation, or perhaps simply to grant him a few seconds alone to ground himself. He rather loved her in that moment.

 

He took a deep breath, straightened his rumpled tie, and took his first step into the past.

 

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile, a few miles down the road, someone else was setting out on a journey.

 

While officially an orphanage, the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth had garnered considerable ill repute as an asylum of sorts for the young and troubled strays of the surrounding county. The premises dank and dusty, the practices within questionable at best, it was surely the sort of establishment that should have been shut down and razed to the ground years ago. But, as young Lizzie had learned long ago, life wasn’t fair, and a well-placed bribe could go a long way in keeping the most fetid wrecks afloat.

 

She frowned, tugging her ratty scarf tighter round her throat. Even now, ten years on, the name felt a poor fit. It wasn’t hers, she knew that. It was one of the few things she could say she knew for certain. Her eyes were green, Nurse Witless’ nose was bulbous, and Lizzie was not her real name. But it had been rattling around in her brain for a long time, and it seemed a shame to waste a perfectly good name when it was so readily available.      

 

“You’ll want to follow the path until yeh reach the fork in the road,” Witless droned, and Lizzie tried hard to pay attention. It was her own future, after all. “And then follow it left, it’ll take you to the cannery. I had a word with the supervisor, says he’ll give yeh a job if you get there by this evening, so don’t go wandering off. There’ll be no special treatment where you’re going, lassie- others aren’t as accommodating as I am with yer little turns. So no chasing rabbits and such, aye?”

 

“Yes, Nurse Witless,” Lizzie sighed, nuzzling her chin into the scarf. She was only too happy to be leaving this infernal place, but she had the sinking feeling that she was heading out of the frying pan and straight into the fire with this new career path. Doomed to live out the rest of her days dead-eyed and stinking of fish, no chance of promotion or better prospects for the insane orphan girl. Almost made one crave the sweet release of death.

 

“Don’t sound so ungrateful,” Witless scolded, yanking open the rusty old gate. “You’ve been scrounging off me long enough. Fell into my lap over a decade ago and ‘ave scarcely shown me a scrap of thanks since. All these years, I’ve fed yeh, _clothed_ yeh-”

 

“Kept a roof over my head, yes, I know,” Lizzie muttered, stomping her feet. Already the snow was soaking through her ratty shoes.

 

Witless glowered over her glasses. “Of all the bloody cheek,” she grumbled, gesturing impatiently for Lizzie to get herself through the gate and out of her hair. “Nameless no-account like yerself ought not to bite the hands that feed yer. ‘Specially not after all the trouble you’ve given the poor doctor. Now off with yeh, I’ve got other nippers to watch and I’ve given you enough years of my life already. I’m not getting any younger, yeh know.”

 

“You don’t say?” Lizzie said under her breath, hastily dodging through the awful gate and into freedom.

 

She ignored Witless’ indignant huffing in favour of sparing one last glance for the orphanage’s upper windows. The other children watched her wistfully, wide eyes shadowed with exhaustion and malnourishment. Lizzie shuddered. No, this was definitely for the best. If she stayed here any longer, they may as well bury her old bones on this very plot.

 

It was with great relief, as well as great sadness, that she turned her back on Houndsditch Home for the last time. She hoped that one day she might return here- should her fortunes change, she would like to return and free the other children from this despicable place. But for now, all she could do was trudge through the snow, daydreaming of a brighter day yet to come.

 

* * *

 

 

“So. Is it what you expected?”

 

Victor shrugged. “It all seems much… smaller than I remembered.”

 

“Well, it _was_ over a decade ago,” Victoria reasoned, rubbing her cold hands together. “You’ve grown a fair bit since then, I’d imagine.”

 

Victor nodded, eyes traversing what remained of the grand bannister he used to slide down when his parents had their backs turned. Much like the rest of the house, it now amounted to little more than scraps of charcoal. Any details untouched by flames were submerged in snow, black and white merging in a most peculiar way, turning to gritty grey sludge where he stepped.

 

He accepted Victoria’s hypothesis- he had grown a considerable amount since he’d last set foot here, no doubt a genetic trait from his father’s side. The bannister which had seemed so high when he was ten barely reached his chest. But it was more than that. Grand staircase or no, this place seemed far too small to ever encapsulate the biggest, most harrowing experience of his young life. How could the night that had shaped him as a human be contained within these four walls alone?

 

He wandered automatically through the hollow carcass of the halls, his mind supplying memories for every room. The soup he once spilled over there, the expensive vase he’d knocked off a shelf over there. No wonder his mother didn’t trust him with food or fragile things.

 

A particular section of the old house gave him pause. He recognised it immediately as the remains of the old servant’s quarters. Despite his mother’s strict instructions that he never set foot amongst ‘the help’, he’d spent many a long and lonely afternoon in these rooms, conversing with Mrs. Plum the jolly house cook, or Paul the head waiter. He and Emily used to play hide-and-seek here. This very room was where he sat one day, cross-legged on the floor, sketching butterflies while little Alice drew grinning cats and dodos and other such wonderful nonsense. He wondered what could have happened to all those curious pictures of hers. Whomever bought her family’s vacant house could very well have used them to feed a few fires on cold winter nights.

 

He sighed, kicking aside a small damp clump of dust and snow. His old drawings were in these ashes somewhere. A forlorn hope it may be, but he kept his fingers crossed that Alice’s works had not met such a fate, and that somewhere a little piece of her survived.

 

The world would be a very grey place with no Alice Liddell.

 

* * *

 

 

“‘Go left’, she says,” Lizzie muttered, glowering up at the sign. If you could really call three splintered planks nailed to a withering tree a sign.

 

One pointed back the way she came- the one sign she knew with at least some degree of certainty she would _not_ be following. In the scrawling script, ‘Houndsditch’ looked rather more like ‘Horse-itch’. Oddly fitting either way.

 

To the left, ‘Van Dort Cannery’. Maybe it was her imagination running wild once more, but she could practically smell the fish from right where she stood. Her entire life flashed before her eyes. Year after miserable year gutting fish and cramming them into cans. All the jagged cuts from sharp metal, all the greasy and impossibly smelly stains across her cloths. All the blank stares from lifeless, beady eyes. She shuddered. No, she’d rather avoid that, too. But with those two options gone, that only left...

 

The final sign bore only a single word. A name she could not remember hearing in the orphanage where life outside was seldom mentioned, and yet one that struck her as oddly familiar. ‘Oxford’. A curious name- were oxen a popular export? The sign told her virtually nothing. Certainly, she rationalised, not enough information to make an informed decision that would impact the rest of her life. It would be far better not to risk it.

 

Then again, _fish_ …

 

She groaned, flopping down onto a thick, snow-clad root at the base of the tree. What she needed was a sign. One of the non-wooden, non-useless variety. Something specific, and decisive, something altogether impossible to ignore.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard the saying ‘be careful what you wish for’?”

 

She groaned again, once more with feeling. “Oh, not _you._ I don’t have time for you right now, you mangy thing. Perhaps you could give me your riddles some other time?”

 

The cat had not yet shown himself, but his voice was distinctive. And, as usual, it sounded insufferably smug. Blasted creature. “I couldn’t help but notice your little quandary, and thought you might appreciate a second opinion.”

 

“I don’t think you count,” she said, a little rudely. She was rather too irritated for politeness. “You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

 

“Yes, I suppose. But that’s hardly a problem- after all, you seldom heed anyone’s advice but your own,” he said. She could hear the grin.

 

She rolled her eyes, but she had to admit the creature had a point. An angel could descend from the heavens that very moment and tell her which way to go and she’d still take its opinion with a pinch of salt. “So tell me, Cheshire,” she said, frowning at the sign. “Which path would you take?”

 

“While the smell of that fish is tempting for sure,” his voice said, with a tell-tale pause as he no doubt licked his grinning lips with longing. “I find the path less travelled is often the most rewarding. One never knows what one might find.”

 

“That’s not always a good thing,” Lizzie said, narrowing her eyes at the Oxford sign. The air felt different somehow. Warmer.

 

“Well,” he said, and she finally looked to his voice. His grin and glinting yellow eyes greeted her, glowing through the smoke- wait,  smoke? “Sometimes in order to move forward, we must first take a step back…”

 

Flames roared in her peripheral vision. Lizzie shielded her eyes from the glarewith one gloved hand,  gasping as a wave of heat assaulted her. Her eyes followed the path less travelled, the Oxford sign  blurring in the smog.

 

The house loomed in the distance, grand and sprawling. She had no doubt it would have been beautiful had it not been set upon by cleansing fire, crumbling the infrastructure from the inside out, cutting gaping wounds into stone and shingle alike. Smoke flooded the fields and skies, heavy and suffocating, catching in her throat and making her eyes water. She glanced down and stepped back in alarm as she noticed a thick, viscous black substance bleeding between the cobblestones, grasping at her feet.

  
“You can’t be serious,” she told the cat, kicking gravel across the foul concoction.

 

“It’s only a suggestion, of course,” the cat said, his features once more leaping into focus through the grey fog. “Turn around if you  wish, I’m sure the cannery will be only too happy to have you. It’s a future, of sorts. But a future with no past is a strange thing  indeed. I only thought to offer you a bit of… _context_.”

 

Lizzie sighed, wiping her face. She imagined she must look like a chimney sweep with all this soot in the air. She had no desire to set  one foot further into this stifling illusion, but the cat had a point. How could she possibly know where she was bound, if she hadn’t  the faintest clue from whence she’d come?

 

“I won't like what awaits me down this path will I, cat?” she muttered.

 

“It's possible and highly probable.”

 

She scowled. “Oh, joy.”

 

_Courage, don't desert me._

 

She took a deep, steadying breath, and took the first step.

 

                   

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps, had she not been so eager to begin her journey, she might have taken a moment to look back the way she came. But, pulse racing and heart in mouth, she dove headfirst into the unknown with nary a glance back.

 

As such, she failed to notice the presence of another.

 

The man, tall and angular, repugnant both in appearance and character, watched her go with disdain. He had followed her this far just to be certain- he scarcely imagined she could cause any problems had she just gone ahead and taken up her new post as a fish factory dogsbody. But, as he’d suspected, her inquisitive nature had got the better of her. A pity, really.

 

She should know by now about curiosity and the cat...

 

* * *

 

 

That night, in an elegant house in the countryside, a man handsome in visage and ghastly in morals sat by the fire, humming a tune for only the house to hear. This house had witnessed some truly wicked deeds over the years, dark walls steeped in darker secrets. If walls could talk…

 

The peaceful crackle of the fire was interrupted by the sound of paper scraping stone. Had he not been accustomed to keeping his wits about him and his guard raised, he might have missed it altogether.

 

His cold eyes narrowed, his hand closed around the nearest poker. His coattails swept behind him as he strode purposefully to the front door.

 

He knew not what to expect of the note that awaited him under the door, but he wasn’t so naive as to expect pleasant tidings. He was no stranger to angry words and threats of violence- many disliked the manner in which he made his way in the world, after all. It was why, when possible, grieving families were best disposed of.

 

But whatever kind of threat could have been enclosed in the envelope, it could not have been more chilling than the two sentences he found inscribed within.

 

_She’s on her way._

_Be prepared._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_To Be Continued..._

 


End file.
